


F E E L.

by redhouseboys



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Keith angst, M/M, RIP to fanon keith, Well - Freeform, You Know I Had To Do It To Em, after that fucking vlog, but have at it i guess, generic angst dump, gods dammit, keith cries, so anyway, this is purely self indulgent practice writing lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 23:50:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12157323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhouseboys/pseuds/redhouseboys
Summary: ***RE-POST.***"End training sequence."  It isn't Keith who says it. It's the blue, like water, eyes not leaving his.Keith breathes. He lowers his arm and the bayard collapses.Lance.





	F E E L.

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again at krispy kreme 
> 
> so if you managed to be one of the people who read this for the first .5 seconds it was up, then you're probably like "huh bitch the fuck i thought i saw this already." well, yeah, you did. but i had some things to shuffle around and some errors going on with my account so it disappeared, but i'm back now!!! posting it again for good 
> 
> so, that fucking vlog am i right folks? 
> 
> this is just a self-indulgent angst dump in response to dream works ripping my heart out, no real plot or anything, i just wanted keith to be able to cry and open up to someone else??? so i did....this,,,whatever it is 
> 
> title and lyrics interspersed are from kendrick lamar's FEEL bc i love that man so much 
> 
> yay for another pointless one shot

It's that familiar lick of flame in his lungs. Aching and bone-like, as he slashes through another automated enemy, training gladiators dropping one by one before him. His chest is heaving, short with breath from more than just exertion. 

He yanks the headphones out of his ears once the floor is strewn with dead machinery, and yells, "end training sequence," sweat prickling his skin. That feeling of cold pleasure pain heat swallows his nerves, and it is grounding. It is something reliable. The gladiators get sucked back into the system and Keith stumbles toward his water bottle, downing a good third of it in one desperate swig. 

The music still blares from where the headphones dangle at his shoulders-- _I feel like I'm losing my focus._ Keith grits his teeth, sword still clutched tightly in his free hand. He remembers green black blue multicolored brown eyes staring at him, expectant and sad, and growls, low and feral in the back of his throat. Without forethought, he throws the empty bottle across the room and storms back to the center of the training deck. "Begin training level 5!" he shouts. Once again, gladiators drop from the ceiling; their vacant faces are almost as familiar as the warmth of his friends'. 

Keith plugs the headphones back in-- _I feel like I can't breathe, look_ \-- and then brandishes his bayard, knuckles bone white around the hilt, as he charges in for another round. 

 

*************

 

Keith starts to feel dizzy once he gets to level 6.

Normally, he wouldn't make it this far, but there is a searing ache in his muscles that feels good, feels real. So he prolongs it. His own blood is heavy on his tongue. 

It comes to a point where he is so overexerted he begins to tremble, struggling to stay upright. Dissociation, he thinks, can strike at the most inconvenient times. He feels like he's not there. The adrenaline escapes with each labored breath as he slashes aimlessly, drifting into survival-level autopilot.

Keith's mind goes somewhere far, turning the stars over in his head. There is a young boy with dark hair at a playground. He is beaming, waving his arms enthusiastically from the top of the tallest slide, eyes a soft lilac. "I did it, Mommy! I made it to the top!" 

The world shifts. That same young boy is standing in the doorway of his parent's room, his lower lip wobbling as he bites back tears. His mother is not there. There is no note, no indication that she'd ever been there before. Just an unfamiliar barrenness, a concavity that dims the vibrancy of a childlike world. Was it his fault?

Another gladiator, down, limbs burning--it is that boy again, but his eyes are darker now, more indigo than violet. There is a doubled vacancy, one that stains pale skin with ugly tears. "I'm so sorry for your loss." The voice is tinny and insincere. "We'll find you a nice place to live now, okay?" 

Lies, the young boy thinks, and the music picks up-- _fuck your feelings I mean this for imposters_ \--and epinephrine flourishes red blue red. It's hot and vigorous, something metallic careening to the ground with a loud bang. A vicious sound claws out of an empty stomach. _Lies._

Bayard slices through metal, crackling heat, and the little boy is older now--that smiling brilliance from playgrounds and sunsets hidden. There's a girl, maybe a year or two older than him, sitting beside him at a tall, oakwood dinner table. The plates before them are empty, and everybody else has left the room.

Her voice is quiet, and kind. The boy has water in his chest, salient, threatening to flood, so with great effort, he swallows thickly and listens, but says nothing. This won't last for long, he thinks, the love and gentility in her voice a throbbing pain in his skull. The good ones never last for long.

The next time he is at a dinner table, it is pristine glass and he's being yelled at, the chastisement and warnings against getting into fights with other kids at school brittle and distant. Keith fees like something rusted, decaying. He keeps his jaw hard-set, forgetting what crying is supposed to feel like.

"Level 7!" His own voice startles him. Three more gladiators descend upon him. This will be a losing battle now.

The boy comes back--well, now he's a teenager. There is something militant about him, taut and hard-wired; the elasticity only comes with flight, with recklessness. There, he feels. There, he can fill his heart with wind.

(The elasticity only comes at night, when there is nobody to hide from. He softens and stares up at the ceiling, wondering if he's doing enough. If it'll ever be enough. If he should try harder.)

Blood. Keith feels it, trickling down his arm, and he grunts, sprinting to the nearest gladiator, dodging another blow with startling agility.

The same boy again. An outburst of screaming, clawing mess leaves him shoveled out into the world, blindly stumbling through a foreign desert. The boy's shame is thick and hot, hotter than the sun that beats against his back. That is all they think of him now, he realizes. Just anger. Just fire. That is all he is to them, and the thought brings out the water in him, dulling his outward flame. He never wanted to do that. He never wanted to leave.

Then, another image. The boy is just a bit older, hair tied up halfheartedly, barefoot, jeans rolled up to the ankles in the dizzying summer heat. The dull buzz of cicadas hums in the distance and he scribbles something thoughtful in a notebook. It is a quiet picture, but something about it is off-kilter. Something about it screams for touch.

The images continue to fracture and spin out of control, coloring Keith's world with overwhelming noise. It becomes too much. Past slides into present and he can't shove off each failure, each shaky command, frail as a ghost in a cockpit much too large for him. The need to do better is so bright. 

Violently, Keith gets shoved to the ground. He is bloody and beaten and can barely breathe. Deep pangs of gnawing hunger in his stomach, heaviness in his eyes--and water. Water. He feels the water in him. Desperate to keep it at bay, he drags his body off the ground and charges again, replacing fear with bloodlust, snarling like an animal and plunging his bayard into the heart of the assailant.

Then there are footsteps behind him, and a hand brushes over his shoulder. Keith spins, mouth open for a yell, ready to strike, but the hand then curls around his raised arm and stops him. Blue penetrates his blurred vision, and it is the only clarity in the haze. The hand is tight, strong around his bicep.

"End training sequence." It isn't Keith who says it. It's the blue, like water, eyes not leaving his. 

Keith breathes. He lowers his arm and the bayard collapses.

Lance.

"Keith," Lance says, taking in his battered form, the blood, the bruises, the wild look in his eyes, the headphones ripped from his ears. "You're gonna kill yourself if you don't take a break. You need to chill out, man." 

The words have a fondness to them that shatters Keith. He is burning. There is water. Water, like a drowning victim, caught in his lungs, and if he doesn't cough it back up, he'll suffocate, he'll--

No. No, not in front of someone else. Not in front of Lance.

Keith's eyes are strangled. He forces himself to pull away, despite how much he just wants to lean in. How much his body craves touch, craves love.

"I'm fine," he manages, but his anger is weary and thin, and Lance knows it. The look in his eyes says this much. 

"You're not," Lance replies, indignant, planting his feet firmly and refusing, as he usually does, to give up. Taking his challenges head on. "Keith, you know you can trust us, right? You can trust me."

Keith's throat hurts. "Of course I know that, " he says, acidic. "I'm not an idiot. We wouldn't be able to form Voltron if I didn't." 

God, Lance's eyes are so blue. He wants to swim in them, to die there, cradled in the softness of them. He trusts Lance. He more than trusts Lance, but he stops that thought before it can spiral. 

"Keith," Lance echoes. His voice is surprisingly gentle, brow furrowed in concern. He doesn't say anything else, but the way he looks at Keith is very quickly unwinding him.

He's quiet, but the images from earlier are splintering--and Lance is looking at him like--like-- 

Keith starts to cry.

It is not a particularly foreign thing, but it is a shameful one. Keith despises crying, with everything in him, and this brittle hatred only makes him cry harder. He's a drowning victim finally coming up for air, salt filling in his lungs as he awakens and spits it out in terrifying bursts of heat.

It hurts.

And Lance is right in front of him. Oh, God.

For a moment, Lance is still. Keith crying is something the red paladin had made sure nobody would ever see. But Lance...there is something about Lance that shatters the glass around him and plunges his hand past the fire in Keith, setting the water loose.

Faint. He feels faint, and hungry, and tired, and his limbs ache. Keith feels like he is dying and he hates crying in front of Lance, but what he wants, what he needs...It's so close but he can't do it. He just can't.

Lance does it for him.

Cautiously, Lance brings Keith into his arms, holding him in a gentle embrace. Unable to help himself, Keith leans in, crying harder, soaking Lance's baseball tee with saltwater. "I'm so sorry--"

"Don't." Lance starts combing his fingers through Keith's hair, cold and soothing. "It's okay. Just cry, Keith." 

And he does.

Keith isn't sure how long he stays there, foolishly satiating his need for human contact. He sobs, ugly and wet, right there in the middle of the training deck, with Lance holding him, murmuring gentle reassurances, hushing softly, once and a while helping to control Keith's breathing. Keith doesn't know how Lance is so good at this, but he remembers shortly after the thought that Lance has a big family, a lot of them younger siblings. It probably hasn't been the first time he's held someone while they cried. 

After a while, Keith feels like he's going to collapse from exhaustion. He stumbles, and Lance catches him. "Whoa there, samurai," he says, steadying Keith gently. "You need some food and water. Come on, let's get you to the kitchen." 

Keith's heart seizes. "No," he says weakly, shaking his head. "Lance, not like....not like this." 

Lance pauses, nods knowingly, and rubs a soothing hand up and down Keith's arm. "I can take you back to your room," he says, "then I'll bring you something. That okay?" 

Keith can't believe this is happening, but he manages a weak "yeah" regardless, his breathing shaky as he follows Lance out of the training deck. 

It is during that silent walk that Keith lets the shame and embarrassment fully sink in. That had been so raw. So vulnerable and broken, and Lance had seen it all....god, what could he possibly think of Keith now? One thing he knows for sure: Lance had peered into him, peeled back an invisible armor, and now he is stuck there and Keith....Keith doesn't know what to do about that.

What if Lance finds out how big of a place he has in Keith's heart?

Tears threaten to spill again and Keith sucks them in. Enough.

Finally, they reach Keith's room, which is eerily, though not surprisingly, barren, barely lived-in despite how long they've been here now. (Keith doesn't like to make a home of things. Home, in his eyes, is always uprooted.)

Lance leads Keith to the bed, and Keith stumbles a little, but sits down, feeling his limbs sag with tiredness. "Jesus," Lance says, frowning, "you look like shit, dude." 

That actually draws a snort out of Keith. "You just watched me cry for nearly an hour and that's the best thing you can come up with?" 

"Be nice," Lance teases, crossing his arms. "I am nurturing you, Keith. Don't take my love and care for granted."

I don't, Keith thinks fiercely, but instead, comes out with, "Yeah, yeah. Go get me food. I'm starving." 

"Bossy," Lance jokes, pouting at him. But then he goes soft again. "Lay down, mullet boy. I'll be right back." 

Keith does as asked, curling up under the covers. God, he aches. He still hasn't cleaned himself up at all--getting food and water in him is a priority--and he feels like an unkempt mess, weak and pathetic. _I feel like it's just me, look, I feel like I can't breathe, look, I feel like I can't sleep--_

When Lance gets back, he has to make the boy promise to forget this entire moment had even happened. Forget that Keith had cried, had broken down. Forget the way Keith had leaned into his arms and nuzzled him, like an insatiable addict desperate to fulfill a craving. He's so touch-starved, so guarded, he hadn't realized how badly he needed and ached to be held.

It didn't really help that it was Lance, of all people.

Lance. That deep, tranquil blue--the same blue that lit up with electricity and excitement after a successful mission, that softened when he looked at his friends, that brightened when he spoke about his family, that glittered like stars when he laughed. The blue that had drawn Keith out of a violent stupor and stopped him from getting himself killed.

Keith's pulse is wild and reckless, fluttering at these thoughts, at the picturesque blue of Lance's eyes. The way Lance had held him, soothed him, played with his hair.

Oh god, he's fucked. 

Lance returns then with a bowl of food goo and a bottle of water. Keith, reluctantly, sits up and finishes both at an alarmingly fast rate. "Wow, record time," Lance says appreciatively. Keith rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the fragility in his chest. 

After that, Lance helps Keith clean up his wounds before the boy stumbles off to take a shower. Still, Lance stays in his room and waits. When Keith comes back, Lance is there, sitting on the bed, flicking through a tablet aimlessly and playing some dumb game. At Keith's entrance, he looks up and brightens a little. "Hey, you're looking better," he says, scooting over so Keith can lay down. "You want me to shove off now?" 

Keith considers it for a moment. He should say yes. Make Lance promise not to tell anyone, and then push him away. That would be the end of it.

His body trembles with the starvation of touch, and he frowns.

"No," Keith answers, despite his better judgement. "Stay."

"Will do, buddy," Lance says, sending Keith a fond smile that makes the other boy's heart melt. 

They stay that way for a long time, Keith just laying there, breathing clean and slow, while Lance reads something and brushes his fingers through Keith's hair. Before they know it, night falls (or, the simulated version of night that aligns roughly to earth time on the castle so they can have a relatively functional sleep schedule) and Lance and Keith are together, still and quiet, basking in each other. Keith feels equal parts warm and sick to his stomach.

He swallows something heavy. "Lance."

"Hm?" 

It takes Keith a moment, as if he can't decide whether to burrow under the blankets to avoid being seen, or to stay here and look Lance in the eye. He settles on the latter. "You can't tell anyone about today." 

Lance gets a thoughtful look, and he sets the tablet down, turning to look at Keith. His hand trails from Keith's hair down to his cheek, brushing his knuckles briefly over the smooth skin there before pulling away, almost nervously. "I won't," he begins, "but, Keith, you gotta understand, no one is gonna think differently when they find out you actually, like, have feelings." 

Keith's brow furrows, and he opens his mouth for a retort, but Lance cuts him off.

"I know, ha ha, good one Lance," Lance says, mimicking Keith's deadpan, before his eyes go serious again, "but, I mean that, Keith. This doesn't change anything, okay? Well, I mean, it does, but in a good way. You know that you can trust me. You know that I'm here for you, which like, has always been a thing, but you're too busy to notice it." Keith stares at him, a little unable to process. "And now I'm trying to tell you that any of the team would've done the same thing. They would have listened. Because we care about you, Keith. When are you gonna see that?"

"I do." Keith's voice is a defensive whisper, weak and uncertain in its denial. "I know you care. I mean, I care about you guys too. We couldn't form Voltron without--" 

"Forget about Voltron, for a second," Lance interrupts. "Yeah, this whole crazy fighting aliens in space with a giant robot super weapon thing is what brought us together, but if Voltron went away, or when we kick Zarkon's butt and stop his creepy empire once and for all, we're not gonna stop caring." He's so soft, so gentle and warm, and Keith thinks then how much like the ocean Lance is, wide and open and kind and full of possibility, but dark, fierce when it needs it to be, and deeper than most people care to discover. Keith's heart feels like a singular wave in the midst of that ocean, swaying and bobbing unsteadily in Lance's heart. 

"And, you know," Lance continues, undeterred by Keith's silent gaping, "honestly? Even though I don't like seeing you cry and stuff, I'm glad you did it. You have to let that stuff out, man. It's eating you up." Delicate yet calloused fingers scratch soothingly at Keith's scalp. "Crying doesn't make you weak, Keith. Trust me, you'll be a better leader after a good sob session every now and then." 

"How do you know that?" Keith asks. He doesn't tell Lance that this is not the first time he's cried since they boarded the ship. It's crying in front of someone that's, well--that's new. That's what make the catharsis suddenly feel like a weakness.

(At some point, they've settled in so Lance, too, is laying down, and Keith is curled up against his chest. They don't say anything about the intimate position, and Keith can't decide whether or not he prefers that silence.) 

Lance shrugs. "I just do," he answers. There seems to be more to it than that, but Keith doesn't want to push. "You know, Keith, you really aren't a bad leader. You're adjusting. But I know you can do it." He pauses, and Keith can hear him swallow, as if with nerves. His face is flushed red. "I mean, we all do." 

"Thanks." Keith is a roiling hurricane of emotion, a wall half-broken, off-keel, though still structural and breathing. (Part of it was destroyed in a sudden swell of blue). "Really, Lance. Thank you." 

Lance grins and pokes Keith playfully, impishness rising back in his voice again. The seriousness dissipates. "You're such a softie, Keith," he laughs. "You liiiike me. We're buuuddiesss." 

"Not if you keep doing that, we aren't." 

"Hey! I'm taking care of you! Appreciate me!" 

Keith snorts, tension melting at the familiar banter. "I do, I guess," he answers with feigned half-heartedness. 

"Fine," Lance resigns, "good enough, I'll take it." 

They laugh, and suddenly their position doesn't feel so terrifying anymore. Keith is, admittedly, still very afraid. Afraid of what he feels, afraid that Lance will run, that Shiro will run, that Hunk will run, that Pidge will run, that Allura will run, that Coran will run. But with Lance's hand in his hair, other curled around his side....With Lance's warmth pressed up against him, sweet and soft, smelling of saltwater and ivory soap, he forgets what he's supposed to be scared of, at least for now.

Human contact, he thinks, isn't so bad after all, and tears prick his eyes again in total relief as he realizes: this is all he's ever wanted. Laughter, bright smiles, arms around his own, someone to cry with, someone to talk to-- _someone_. 

Don't give in, his mind warns him, it's a bad idea. He'll leave too. He's going to leave.

But the little boy with the bruises and the glass dining table and the empty house and the desert wind is no longer there. It is this, with Lance, in his arms, not knowing for sure but hoping that somehow, someday, this could be something--this is what's real now.

It feels so odd, Keith thinks, now that his body is drained of the water. There is a warmth now, but not the kind of fire Keith is used to, the kind that sears and spits and burns. It is something soft, something less jagged. It is something Keith always has been.

A gentle balance between fire and water.


End file.
